The Grey Paladin's Revolution
by LookIntoTheAbyss
Summary: A lifetime has passed since Harvey Dent died, the world is in peace, but the sun cannot shine forever. A new power looms at the gates, flitting between good and evil, between white and black: The Grey Paladin. The wolves have breached, howling truths that will force Earth's greatest warriors to forge alliances, dust off armor, flex withered muscles...and hang up their moral code.
1. The Son

I'll be honest, it was a very difficult decision to decide on a sequel story, mainly because, as my fellow writers will empathize, it's not worth writing a follow-up unless the story is big and better, and I wasn't looking forward to the endless nights of writing...but I just couldn't get this story out of my head!

This is the sequel to The Dark Knight's Crusade, and I think it's really going to satisfy the readers. This one is actually more independent of Nolan's Batman, and it won't be following the story of TDKR as much as TDKC did with The Dark Knight. Of course, there'll be some elements from the movie, and from Nolan's trilogy, but I'm really going back to the comics on this one. I've done major research, and this story is a very wide amalgamation of various Batman comics and some of my own ideas that I've been playing with for awhile.

I hope you guys enjoy!

(And if you've read the previous story, you know that this chapter isn't my usual writing style, but for the story's sake, it's proper to introduce this chapter in this form.)

* * *

There are many places on this earth that have been long since forgotten.

Some of these places are paradises. Paradises so enthralling, that many of those who stumbled upon these mythic lands perished as they stared in paralyzed ecstasy, forgetting to eat and drink, powerless to experience the bliss at their fingertips. Only a few held the willpower to tear their eyes away, and even fewer held the wisdom to not look back. These fortunate few who managed to venture back to their homes rarely spoke of what they saw, but in bars and taverns, where the tongues of men are loose, they whispered legends of the mythic paradise, legends that haunted the ears of those poor souls who picked the wrong night for a drink...and the legends spread, luring the poor and the rich alike into fruitless expeditions, dragging the foolish and the wise into insanity...forever hoping that they might just glimpse such an otherworldly bliss...

But, like all balanced scales, there exist other legends as well. Legends that do not speak of heavenly lands, but of tortured and damned hells on earth...places where men are thrown to suffer and die, places where sunlight doesn't dare to enter...places where the few who escape are damned to walk the earth with a tortured soul, begging for death, if death means freedom from their very own haunted minds...

It was in such a hellish place, where those who have knowledge of its existence don't dare to give name nor direction, that a small child was born.

He was born to a poor mother who begged for food and water, not for herself, but for her only son. The mother walked for miles barefoot, carrying the small infant on her back while the sun bore down on her face, hot sand scorched her feet, and the dry wind parched her throat. Most would have perished in those wastelands, but she willed herself onward, not out of fear of death, but out of the sheer love she felt for her only son. For her valiant efforts she was rewarded with the scraps and crumbs from the bottom of waste and garbage, and with such pitiful sustenance at hand, she ignored the painful twists and lurches of her starving stomach, choosing to feed her son while she closed her eyes and prayed for the numbing gift of sleep.

It was in such a merciless place that the child grew, surprising the callous observers who were sure death was raking at the child's door, but like his mother, the child was gifted with immense strength and will. He scoured the lands for food and water, he taught himself to read and to write from tattered remains, and he still managed to care for his mother's failing health. But no matter how plentiful the bounty he gathered, the mother refused to take a bite until the son ate his full, and because of this, the boy grew strong and the mother withered to skin and bones.

In her failing state, the mother fell dangerously ill, and despite the boy's efforts, despite the mother eating her fill and drinking past satisfaction, her condition failed to improve. The boy's eyes then fell upon a nearby village, where he knew medicine was available but exclusive to the rich. He crept in and stole, relying on his clever skills to sneak away, but the alarm was rung and the boy was caught the moment he returned to his mother. She was taken by men, and the boy was punished in the cruelest and wicked way, because in hell on earth, there are no morals, there exist no ethics.

So the boy was chained into a chair, his eyelids forced open by a crude device that drew blood at his eyes, and he was forced to watch as men violated and tortured his mother. The boy howled and cried in agony, begging for forgiveness and mercy while the mother was thrown and tossed like a doll, and only when the mother could no longer scream, for her throat had given way, and when she could no longer twitch, for her strength had been sapped, did they pick up a knife and slice her throat.

But the boy's torment didn't end there.

Still howling with anger and grief, the boy thrashed in the chair as the men picked up the same knife and went to work on him, carving and stabbing while he shrieked in agony, his eyes still forced on his dead mother's corpse, lying naked and beaten a few feet away.  
After what could have been days, the men grew tired of their fun and cast the boy out into the badlands again, his mother's corpse tumbling out a few moments later, and purely for jest, the men tossed the boy the medicine along as well. Howling with laughter, the men left the mutilated boy and his naked mother's corpse to rot under the sun, and again, for jest, they tossed the bloody knife they had used on the boy and mother behind them.

Under the boiling heat of the sun, the boy tried to mourn his mother, but the tears wouldn't come, because his entire body was roaring with pain...pain like never before. He couldn't move or breathe without his mind screeching in agony, without clawing at his eyes, and it was his iron-will alone that allowed him the decision to dress his grievous wounds, certain that time would heal his body...but as the days passed, the pain, unbearable and all consuming, did not lessen. The boy shrieked and screamed to the sky, his entire body thrashing against the earth, damning the men who did this to him, and as the madness of unbearable thirst and hunger overcame him, his eyes fell upon the medicine bottle lying at the feet of his mother's rotting corpse. With the frantic desperation of a deranged man he seized the bottle and swallowed it whole, throwing himself to the ground, praying with all his might that his torment would end. And to his miraculous surprise, the pain receded; the medicine seemed to rush through blood, numbing and obliterating the pain until his mind seemed to fall back into place.

But the boy was no fool, years of living in the worst hell imaginable sharpened his senses, and he knew it was only a matter of time until the pain overcame him again. So the boy grabbed the knife and plunged it into the dry and cracked earth, ripping away, inch by inch, working with a fierceness in his eye, until, hours later, a large mound of dirt lay next to him, and a large open grave lay in front of him. Stripping away his own clothes, he bound his mother up so that he could lay her to rest respectably, he cried freely as he lowered his mother into the ground, and then his watery eyed turned red with rage, and he bellowed to the heavens that he would seek revenge, he roared and screamed hate until his throat might have tore. He buried his mother's body, and he wedged the empty medicine bottle above her grave because it was all he had in his possession to show the the world where his mother, a woman possessed of such extraordinary strength, was forever resting.

With murderous rage, he walked through the badlands, glaring away the pangs of thirst and hunger, holding death at bay by the sheer hatred that ran in his blood. At night fall he came upon the village, the place where they all watched as his mother begged for food, where they all ignored her cries, where the men had violated his mother and left him in agony.  
Under cover of the night, he crept into each home, as silent as death itself, and he slit every throat his eyes fell upon, child and adult, his knife knew no mercy. No one was safe from his vengeance, because they were all equally guilty, nobody helped, no one came walking out of the darkness to answer the boy's cries...

Finally, he came upon the home where the men rested, and he could hear them laughing and drinking inside. The boy waited patiently outside the home, envisioning his revenge while he sat plain and unafraid, because the entire village behind him lay slaughtered, and the dead could not raise the alarm. Eventually the laughter died out and empty bottles clinked to the floor, and when the sound of snoring drifted on, did the boy finally act.

He crept into the home and targeted the closest man to the entrance, the boy immediately blinded and gagged the unconscious man, and dragged him outside where he bound his hands and feet. He repeated this for each of them, and when the boy finally had all of the men outside, he quickly slit their heels and woke them, and they all lurched and writhed on the floor as soon as they understood they were at the boy's mercy. The boy smiled and held up the knife they had so joyously used to murder and torture with, but instead of slicing their throats, where they would have had a painless and easy death, he calmly gouged out their eyes.

The men shrieked, watching in horror as they witnessed their companions lose their sight at the hands of the boy and the knife. The men screamed for forgiveness, promising the boy treasures and wealth from their raids and travels, but the boy was merciless, and as he gouged out the last eye, the idea of the men's raids struck an idea in his mind. He made his way over to the stables, and found a wagon, the tool the men used in their raids, and the boy piled the men's bodies into the bed.

After trekking for hours and hours into the wastelands, the boy threw the men out and cut their bonds. With their heels sliced, the men were forced to crawl and drag themselves across the hot sands, crawling blindly without direction. Realizing that death was at hand, they howled to the sky, screaming and screeching damnation for the boy, but a few still leapt at the boy's feet, begging for mercy from the murdered mother's son...but the son only smiled. He climbed back into the wagon and set off back to the village, leaving the men to blindly crawl their final days on this earth, praying for death as hunger and thirst were sure to torture them into madness...

The Son smiled fondly as he passed a blind man waiting at a bus stop, the man's hesitant walking lope reminded him of the men crawling on the hot sand...their bones were now surely dust, scattered across those badlands, forgotten...yet, even now, several lifetimes later, the thought of those men begging for death still brought a smile to the Son's face.

He threw his hood over his face and calmly made his way down the streets of Gotham.

There was work to be done.


	2. Pax Gothama

The celebration hall was scattered with black tuxes and dazzling dresses: Gotham's wealthiest and loveliest, mingling and drifting amongst the elaborate caviar dishes and lobster tables, chatting and buzzing to the fizz of bubbling champagne and the _chink _of sparkling wineglasses. Underneath them, a glittering white marble floor was littered with rose pedals that fluttered down from the hall's diamond chandeliers. At the center of the gala, a small band of musicians, fitted in white dinner jackets, were playing at the head of a golden dance floor, where dozens of pairs were waltzing in tune to the calm and steady melody.

At the far corner of the hall, a raven-haired woman in a satin-black gown, donning black heels and a dazzling white pearl necklace, downed her vodka martini in one swig. She closed her eyes while she chewed on the olive.

"I hate these things, Steve," she sighed. "And you stained your hat at dinner."

To the right of her, a man in his forties, with comfortable salt and pepper hair, let out a bark of laughter. In a party where all the men were donning white and black tuxedos, he was a sharp contrast in his crisp navy-blue military jacket, gold medals and ribbons rigidly displayed on his chest and shoulder blades. He removed his white service cap from his head, polishing the gold anchor and silver eagle emblazoned on the badge.

"You know I don't like these things anymore than you do, Di," he muttered, replacing the hat squarely on his head, "And look sharp, your favorite board member is coming up behind us. "

Diana groaned, "You have to be kidding me..."

"Heh," grinned Steve.

"Ho-ho!" boomed a voice behind them. "If it isn't Jack and Jackie Kennedy!"  
Diana inhaled deeply, like if she was preparing for heavy labor, "Here we go..."

Steve snorted.

Together, Diana and Steve swiveled around, forced smiles plastered on their faces.

"Mr. Daggett, how nice to see you here," Diana said, extending a hand.

"How are you doing, sir?" Steve asked, holding his cap to his chest, bowing slightly.

John Daggett was a man in his fifties, gray and wispy hair, clear skin and small beady eyes. He was also a man slightly below average height, and Diana assumed that it was this particular trait that had made him such an effective and ruthless businessman: people underestimated him. Diana made that same mistake when she sold a small stock of Wayne Enterprises shareholding to Daggett Industries five years prior. Now, several cutthroat business moves later, Daggett had managed to turn his two percent shareholding into thirty percent. Which made him the second largest shareholder, behind Diana's fifty one percent majority.

Daggett was dressed in a charcoal-grey dinner-jacket, with matching slacks and shoes, and a purple double-breasted waistcoat underneath. The buttons and cufflinks were all matching gold, and his black bowtie was fitted snuggly underneath his collar.

"I'm marvelous, Mr. and Mrs. Trevor," Daggett said warmly, kissing Diana's hand and bowing astutely toward Steve, "Simply marvelous, _but_, the real question is—how are the both of _you_?"

"We're doing quite well, sir," Steve said, "Very kind of you to ask."

Daggett beamed.

"Would you look at this man!?" Daggett exclaimed gleefully. "He's calling me _sir_! Ha! You really are too much Congressman, I'll tell you, _when_ are you going to run for the Senate!?"

Steve grinned and quickly coughed sheepishly, "Um, well, you embarrass me, Mr. Daggett. I don't think I'd be well suited for that office."

Daggett didn't look the slightest put-out, in fact, he looked like Christmas had come early.

"You've got yourself a winner here, Mrs. Trevor, I'm telling you," Daggett said cheerily, he wrapped an arm around Steve's shoulders and held him as if they were at an auction, "Just look at him! He's young, he's handsome, he's a war hero, and he's humble—Jack Kennedy wouldn't have had a chance against this man. I'm telling you Rear-Admiral, it would be a _landslide_."

Steve's smile became strained, "Well I'd have to run it through my wife and kids, first of all..." Steve trailed off, eyeing Daggett's expectant smile uneasily. He stole a helpless glance toward Diana, but Daggett seized that opportunity as well.

"But my dear, _you _could just as easily run as well!" Daggett blurted out, "You're the perfect fit; she's young, she's beautiful, she's a mother, and she's the CEO of a Forbes Top 10 business conglomerate!"

Diana pretended to blush, "Mr. Daggett, that's very kind of you to say, but the organization and fundraising would really take a large slice out of our lives," Diana lifted two more martinis from a passing waiter, she offered one over casually to Steve.

"Um, Mr. Daggett?" Steve said, looking down to Daggett's hand, which was wrapped over Steve's forearm.

"Hm? Oh! Excuse me" Daggett quickly released Steve's arm, "I get a bit worked up when I pitch—but what was I saying? Oh yes, _political office_, listen, you both know that I have _excellent _contacts with all the campaign committees in the city and country—you both could clench the Senate seat in a matter of weeks—and if you play your cards right, the _presidency _might not be far too off..." Daggett finished mysteriously.

"That sounds all very tempting, Mr. Daggett," Diana said, "But, being the respectable business man that you are, I find it very hard to believe that your resources would come without some sort of _catch_..."

Diana smiled innocently as she sipped at her martini.

Daggett's grin didn't falter, but his eyes seemed to lose their playful touch. "Always the shrewd businesswoman..." Daggett chuckled. He calmly sipped his drink and after a brief pause, "I am merely speaking hypothetically, of course, but you know how often I've spoke of the greatness that Wayne Enterprises could achieve if Daggett Industries entered the fray, it would be a powerhouse beyond imagination—"

"I wouldn't doubt it," Diana replied, "but what you must understand Mr. Daggett is that I am running _Wayne _Enterprises...I don't think Bruce Wayne would have liked weaponized-aerosol as a suitable cornerstone for his family's business."

"Bruce Wayne has been dead for twenty years," Daggett said shamelessly, "I think it's safe to say that the world has moved on."

"Maybe, for some people," Diana said quietly, "But I still won't have a massive killing machine as part of _my _company."

"That machine will save millions of lives," Daggett said defiantly, "Imagine a world where antidotes and immunizations are spread by gas? None would have to die from the flu or bacteria, billions of dollars saved in injections and pills, it would be revolutionary."

"And if you load this revolutionary machine with a fast-acting poison, perhaps?" Diana said, "What if you loaded it with, oh I don't know—Cyanide? Mustard gas? Agent Orange?"

Daggett narrowed his eyes, "All great human achievement has been used for darker purposes—was it the dream of the Wright Brothers to crash airplanes into skyscrapers? Was it Einstein's ambition to bomb Japan? Was it—?"

"The answer is still no, Mr. Daggett," Diana said firmly, "I'm sorry, but I don't see myself relinquishing the reins of Wayne Enterprises anytime soon—certainly not to you."

Daggett's eyes flashed dangerously, Diana instinctively tensed her muscles, and before she could say a word, the martini in her hands shattered into dozens of pieces.

Out of nowhere, an immaculately groomed waiter appeared at Diana's side, " We will clean up here. There is no problem." Judging from his brief and unusual cadence, Diana assumed he was foreign. She stepped back as the waiter saw to the floor, and she turned back to John Daggett, looking perfectly normal, not even the barest hint of malice in his eyes.

"I'm sorry about your hand, Mrs. Trevor," Daggett said heavily, "that's quite the grip you have—and I am sorry that we couldn't see eye-to-eye tonight, it seems that I might simply have to try harder to convince you."

"I'm sure you will, Mr. Daggett, " Diana said, "And I promise to consider your words very carefully before I make a decision, after all, you are a man worth listening to."

Daggett flashed a smile, he turned to Steve and held out his hand, "Mr. Trevor, I look forward to sharing a glass of champagne the night you're elected Senator."

Steve shook Daggett's hand, false smiles on both men's faces, "I can only hope so."

With a curt bow, Daggett retreated into the horde of Gotham's wealthiest, his small frame lost amongst million dollar necklaces and black bowties.

"That went well," Steve said, frowning at the horde.

"He's a snake, always bringing up that Jack and Jacqueline Kennedy analogy," Diana said disdainfully, "I don't know how to get him off my back."

"He's persistent and clever, a dangerous combination," Steve said, "Better to keep him close, Di, you never know what scheme he'll concoct to get you to relinquish your fifty one percent."

"That's exactly what Lucius said to me five years ago, and he's proven right...Do you want to run for office?" Diana said suddenly.

Steve turned and stared at Diana, "Uh. What?"

Diana shrugged, "Do you?"

"I, uh..." Steve stared at the floor blankly for a moment, "...I'm not sure. Honestly, I haven't actually thought about it. I have enough on my plate as it is..."

"Good answers," Diana said.

"Thanks...do you?"

It was Diana's turn to stare.

"C'mon," Steve said, grinning. "It's a fair question."

"No." Diana said, "I've already got too much on my plate."

Steve snorted.

"C'mon, Navy Boy," Diana said, sliding her arm into Steve's arm. "I want to dance before my speech, because after that I'm just going to find my own little table and pray that tomorrow isn't our children's twentieth birthday party."

"Twenty years..."sighed Steve, leading Diana into the dance floor. "Time flew."

"It did." Diana said, "Even I look older."

Steve rolled his eyes, "You could be my daughter, Di."

"I'm serious, Steve." Diana murmured, waltzing in perfect step with her husband. "There's a reason why my mother looks..._motherly_, despite the fact that she's immortal. It's because she had _me_...now I'm getting older..."

"So you're thirty instead of twenty-five, you're still beautiful," Steve said. "You need to put yourself in my shoes, I'm married to a woman who has about a thousand years on me—talk about a cougar."

Diana snorted. "You're such a kid."

"You should have seen the Navy Ball," Steve grinned, "Nothing but pimply sailors asking out girls to the dance floor—they weren't even William's age."

"Speaking of William, he still won't tell me where he goes off at night," Diana said, scowling. "I know he isn't doing anything wrong, but I'd still like to know where my son goes off to from 8 p.m. to 8 a.m."

Steve shrugged, "He's becoming his own man, testing the waters...that sort of thing."

Diana blinked, "Wait...do you mean...testing _feminine _waters..."

"A father never reveals a man-to-man conversation," Steve said seriously, "The conversations that happen on the gridiron _stay _on the gridiron."

"Will doesn't play Football."

"It's a man metaphor, Di..."

* * *

_1 hour later._

"And it is for this reason why, I am proud to present the main man of this event—_Dr. Hugo Strange!"_

Diana flung out her arm and led the audience into a thunderous applause. A man in a white lab coat politely rose from his seat. He made his way through the crowd, walking with an upright and confident stride, his broad chest and sturdy shoulders displayed despite the gangly and ill-fitting white doctor coat he wore curiously over his evening wear. His head was clean-shaven, sporting a well-kept beard that had slivers of grey comfortably displayed, and he had a pair of black, rimless full-moon eyeglasses resting rigidly on his straight nose. He shook hands with Diana and turned to the crowd, a dazzling white smile on his face that displayed his perfectly white teeth.

"Thank you very much for that warm welcome," Hugo said into the mike, the applause dying down as his deep voice filled the room. "And how about another round of applause for the beautiful and gifted CEO, Mrs. Diana Trevor, a woman of extraordinary intelligence, who has been more than generous to my cause, and Gotham's welfare."

Dr. Strange led the audience into applause as Diana smiled to the crowd and politely raised a wine glass in Hugo's direction. After a few seconds the applause died out and Dr. Strange cleared his throat, smiling the dazzling smile again before saying to the quiet room, "As you all well know, I have championed solar and fusion energy all my life. In a world that is littered with inefficient fossil fuels and limited clean energy, I have made it my life's mission to provide our children's future with a key to a better and cleaner life."

"Five years ago, I came across a blip in my mission. It wasn't doubt, it wasn't hesitancy, it was something far more difficult and challenging to overcome, and I'm sure you'll all agree with me that it is a problem that we all can sympathize...money."

The audience laughed, Hugo grinned and raised his hands, amused. "It doesn't sound very heroic, but it's the truth. I lacked the appropriate resources to further my research, I was facing bankruptcy, and as I struggled to hold back the bankers with a cane, Diana and Wayne Enterprises stepped in and saved my life's work."

The room was filled with warm sighs and murmurs as Diana smiled humbly and nodded politely in Hugo's direction again. Hugo led the crowd into another polite applause before turning back to his speech.

"Now, five years later, the world is standing on the brink of scientific breakthrough, my research has expanded to incredible results—we can now harness the power of the sun, without cumbersome and unreasonable equipment...we can now _create _and _duplicate _the power of the sun...and with it, we can power schools in third world countries, we can provide limitless energy to hospitals with no resources, we can provide _hope _to the places in this world where a mother struggles to feed her children..."

The entire room went quiet as Hugo paused and a small tear ran down behind his eyeglasses, he took a deep breath and drew a small handkerchief from the lab coat's breast pocket, wiping the tear and saying, "The reason I become emotional is because I have seen first-hand how terrible some parts of the world remain, despite our luxurious and urbanized cities...and now, we can make sure that no mother ever has to tell her children that they don't have anything to eat...all because of the kindness and support of Wayne Enterprises, and their extraordinary CEO. Thank you." The room broke into loud applause as Hugo bowed shortly and returned back to his seat. Another Wayne Enterprises board member made his way to the podium.

"Thank you for the invitation, Diana," Hugo muttered moments later, lowering himself into a seat beside Diana. "The reception was very enthusiastic."

"Hugo, you're the main star of tonight's event." Diana said obviously, looking ahead as the board member droned on. "It would have been pointless without you here."

"Yes, but still, I am grateful," said Hugo, joining her in staring politely as the board member spoke, pretending to listen. "And your charming husband?"

"He decided to call it a night, he has been very busy lately, with Congress, the Navy..."

"Naturally," conceded Strange, his deep voice calm and steady, "I expect a man with his responsibilities to harbor a busy scheduler—he is remarkable."

"That's very kind of you to say."

A few minutes passed as they listened and nodded mechanically to the speech. Hugo stayed silent next to her, his fingers pressed gently to his lips, his eyes distant. After ten minutes, Hugo placed his hands into a steeple and cleared his throat, "Mrs. Trevor, I was wondering if you have put more thought into our discussion earlier, the one about—"

"As I said before, Hugo," said Diana coolly, smiling along as the crowd laughed at a joke. "I do not want to talk about extremely outlandish theories."

Hugo smiled shamelessly, "I understand _your _theory on the matter, but the research and evidence points toward—"

"An _idiotic _conclusion," Diana finished kindly. "I hold you in very high esteem, Dr. Strange, please don't make me revaluate your intelligence."

Hugo eyed Diana for a moment before he smiled pleasantly, "Of course, Mrs. Trevor, I will not waste any more of your time. Forgive me."

"No need for an apology," Diana said sweetly. "No offense given, no offense taken."

Hugo nodded his head respectfully and buttoned up his coat, rising from the table. "It is with a heavy heart that I must return to my laboratory, Mrs. Trevor. I thank you for the kind words and the party—and for ignoring my_ idiotic _speculations." He added as an afterthought.

Diana nodded politely, "Of course. Think nothing of it."

Hugo walked behind Diana and patted her shoulder kindly. "I just thought that if I had any information on the Batman's identity, you of all people would be more than content to aid in the search for Harvey Dent's murderer...we wouldn't want to leave any stone unturned, right? " he added innocently.

Diana slowly looked up to Hugo's looming polite smile, "Of course, Dr. Strange," she said, her smile strained. "There is no one on earth who doesn't want Harvey Dent's murder brought to justice...but please, your thought process leaves much to be desired...Good night, Dr. Strange."

"Good night, Mrs. Trevor." And he stepped away from the table, walking to a far exit where he disappeared behind a door. Diana eyed his departure for a moment before downing the rest of her wine and muttering darkly.

Someone snorted behind her.

"He is still bothering you with his theory, I presume?" said a deep and masculine voice. "Because I don't know why else a woman like you would contemptuously drink wine."

Diana smiled and swiveled in her seat to face the chairman and brains of Wayne Enterprises: Lucius Fox. Lucius was a tall man, with tanned skin and a great head of white frizzy hair. He spoke with a deep and calculating voice, which, combined with his sharp piercing eyes, gave him the air of a shrewd hawk. He peered at her over a pair of horn-rimmed glasses, and he was dressed in a simple tuxedo, with the tie loosened and his collar unbuttoned; Lucius was the type of man to put an extra emphasis on business _casual._

"He's still adamant," Diana said, helping herself to more wine. "He can't resist asking me about it every time he sees me."

"He is persistent," Lucius admitted, picking up a glass and pouring himself generous amount. "A few hours ago he aggressively tried to access the company's financial records—focusing on the records from twenty years ago."

Diana groaned. "You've wiped everything off the books, right? Please tell me yes, because if he gets his hands on that information Lucius, there'll be no end to the questions. Dr. Strange isn't stupid and he'll quickly piece together that—"

"Relax yourself, Mrs. Trevor," Lucius chuckled, "do you really think I would have allowed him that information? Since the inception of Batm—er—the _project_— I've quietly shuffled the expenses all around the company's day-to-day financial requirements—the only thing Dr. Strange will discover is that Wayne Enterprises has been paying top-dollar for ordinary coffee grounds."

"Oh," Diana said, relaxing her shoulders and closing her eyes as she sunk back into her chair. "You're a life-saver Lucius. I'm sorry I'm going to pieces on you, it's just that the twins are turning twenty tomorrow and the party planning was worthy of the third-ring of hell."

Lucius snorted. "I'm sure you've done a fine job. Give the twins my best, and I'll send along my present with you."

Diana's eyes snapped open. "I am sorry Lucius," she groaned, "I thought I invited you weeks ago—I've just had so much on my mind, with Strange's experiments and—"

"It's alright, Diana," Lucius said, waving it off. "I'll drop by if I can—I need to visit Strange's lab tomorrow, he's showing off his Sun-radiation theory."

Diana frowned, "You can skip that if you like, it wouldn't even be a sick day, you could come to the party."

Lucius shook his head, "I need to be there personally, make sure it's ethical and that he isn't badgering anyone else about his theory."

"Right..." Diana said slowly, "Well...thank you Lucius...we'd be lost without you."

Lucius smiled and his eyes went distant. "Thomas used to tell me that..." and downed the rest of his wine, smacking his lips and standing up from his chair. "Well, I'd better be off. I need to get enough sleep so I don't fall asleep as Strange drones on, Good night Diana—hell of a party." He added, setting his wine glass firmly on the table.

"Good night, Lucius," Diana said, returning to the crowd, her eyes losing focus as her mind drifted to the following night's party, how she was going to keep Dr. Hugo Strange's theories off her back, how the twins would react if they ever heard Hugo's theory...

* * *

_Hope you guys enjoyed that! Drop a review to let me know what you think! In case anyone noticed, I did change the rating to "M", because there are some pretty intense and violent scenes coming up ahead. Like the WritingGirl23 said, this is going to be a grim and epic story...now that I think of it, I might just have to split it in half, because there are so many subplots and arcs that I want to throw in, so this might become a trilogy of its own!_

And one more thing, this is mainly because I've received a few messages about the plot and the characters...guys, I killed the main protagonist in the previous story...no one is safe. Haha! 

_Thanks!_


	3. It Never Rains

_I hope you all will enjoy this chapter, it features the return of a character from the previous story. Cheers!_

* * *

It was the beginning of winter.

Despite the dark clouds that had shifted ominously over the skies of Gotham City, the weather station reported that there was only a twenty-five percent chance of rain. On top of that, Officer John Blake had finally advanced from his training-wheel days of patrolling the city with a veteran cop who shamelessly counted the days until he could retire with a pension.

It was an oddly bright day in Gotham City.

John Blake should have known better.

He was sitting alone in his patrol car, parked at the far side of a trendy mom-and-pop fast food joint. As Blake carefully applied ketchup to his patty, the radio in his car crackled to life.

Blake fumbled the hamburger as his hand darted to the dashboard, yanking his radio receiver out its holster. The radio hissed again and a cool, calm voice that could be discerned as feminine rang out: "Patrol units in and/or near Old Town please respond to a Jane-Doe over by Gotham Municipal."

John Blake gripped the steering wheel at the sound of the radio dispatch, his knuckles popped over the hiss of the static and his sweaty palms twisted excitedly against the gliding surface of the vinyl wrapped wheel. This was it. He was the only unit near Old Town, this was his time to prove that the police department hadn't made a mistake in promoting him to a lone patrolman...his opportunity to prove himself as independent, smart and tactical.

Blake picked up his receiver.

"Roger, radio dispatch, this is echo four-nine-one," he said smoothly into the radio, he had practiced saying those words in a mirror so often that he could practically sing them, "reporting to crime scene at Gotham Municipal. Over."  
Blake lifted his thumb of the transmitter and waited quietly in his seat, every fiber of him praying that he would be given the green light.  
The receiver hissed with lifeless radio static for a moment before, "Roger, echo four-nine-one, report ASAP."

Blake hissed in excitement and holstered the receiver onto the dashboard, revving the ignition and shifting his modest patrol vehicle into drive. He glanced down to the passenger seat, his fumbled uneaten hamburger was scattered all over the seat.

"Well, at least I know I could play for the Rogues," Blake muttered, tossing the pieces into a bag and throwing the hamburger into the backseat.

Blake pulled out of a drive way and made way to the polluted and hard streets of Gotham City's Old Town. His cheery demeanor faltered as the image of congested traffic came into view. Blake slumped back into his seat, his eyes falling on the red switch on his dashboard for a moment. A Jane Doe meant that the body was already dead, that there wasn't an emergency, and henceforth, no need for him to blindly speed off toward the scene...but still, it was a crime scene, and Blake thought it better to arrive as quickly as possible to make sure that any evidence wasn't tampered with...

Sure, the chiefs at GCPD would buy that.

Blake flicked on the red switch and the wailing cry of police sirens blasted into the air, overpowering the indignant honks of Gotham traffic. After ten seconds of the sirens, a beautiful scene took place: through his windshield he could see cars magically parting to the side, revealing a narrow and completely unobstructed path in their wake. Blake floored the accelerator and rolled his windows down.

Might as well enjoy the ride.

Old Town was an interesting part of Gotham, historians and veterans alike could tell you about how thriving it was back in the day. Of course, Old Town wasn't called Old_ Town _back then, it was simply _Gotham Bay. _

During the roaring twenties, Gotham was known as a handsome city set on the banks of a river, famous for its bootleggers and speakeasies, and even more famous by the fact that the city never fell under the control of gangs, despite the high level of illegal alcoholic beverages that were drained in the basements and sub-basements of hair salons and similarly innocuous establishments. Gotham was the epitome of 20th Century America: wealth, power, greed, men in striped suits, women in velvet dresses, fur coats, polished shoes, and jazz clubs. Everything that a person could ever hope for could be found somewhere along Gotham Bay.

That all stopped once the depression hit.

The speakeasies and backdoor-drinking hideouts became abandoned as citizens left for work elsewhere, and in their absence, the homeless and strays found shelter. After the dust of the war and the depression settled, Gotham was nothing more than grimy, ghost buildings with rats and vagrants as their main occupations. In post-WWII America, Government and Urbanization aid poured into the city, but from a mix of politicians looking to make friends with big-time real-estate moguls and the labor needed to clear out the old buildings, the majority of the money was poured into the opposite side of the river. Poof! _New Gotham. _Soon after, a bridge was built across the river, connecting old and new into what is now known as simply: _Gotham City._

Anyone driving across the bridge from New Gotham and into Old Town could instinctively feel the atmosphere change: people slouching comfortably in their car seats would unknowingly straighten out, suddenly gripping the steering wheel tighter, their eyes automatically widening and darting across their windshield. Blake didn't know how to explain it, because Old Town was experiencing its fifteenth consecutive year at the bottom division of crime-ridden cities, but Blake had a feeling that it was because of the financial situation—New Gotham, with its multi-millionaires and moguls, was the epitome of wealth, with Wayne Tower as its centerpiece. Across the river, away from the rich, Old Town was the epitome of low-income housing and trash bins converted into fireplaces for the homeless...

Some things never change.

Blake turned a corner and entered Old Town, construction zones and smog factories could be seen in the distance; after all, the Gotham City hadn't completely neglected its roots, urbanization and renovating projects were now underway, but the sight of scaffolding and incomplete structures gave the town a sense of abandonment, as if the city couldn't afford to complete the process.  
Blake's siren enabled him to make good time crossing the bridge, ignoring the curious looks of patchy Old Town residents. But as Blake passed a streetlight, his eyes were drawn to the sight of a young mother with two small boys, five and ten years old, probably. The mother's hair was disheveled, and she looked like she hadn't slept in days. The boys were each holding plastic bags in their hands, filled with empty soda cans and water bottles. One of the boys caught Blake's eye and smiled. Blake tried to return the smile, but all that came to his face was a small nod... It was Saturday morning for god's sake...those boys should be watching inside, watching cartoons.

Blake turned back to the street, it was largely empty. He sighed gloomily and switched off his siren; he had forgotten that the streets weren't packed in Old Town— there weren't any cars to pack the streets with. Blake glanced up to his rearview mirror, the mother was picking up cans from the curb, the boys held out the bags, watching their mother quietly. Blake scowled.

Harvey Dent might have cleaned the streets, but they were still hungry.

Blake pulled into an empty parking lot that was part of a large, grey warehouse. Blake frowned, it was odd, city municipal plants ran full-time—there should have been dozens of cars parked. Blake killed the engine and stepped out of his car, his nose immediately wrinkling in disgust. He had forgotten that _Gotham Municipal_ was just a fancy way to say _Gotham sewage dump_.

"Officer!" called a distant voice. "Over here!"

Blake shut his car door behind him as he made way over to the voice: a medium-sized man in faded blue jeans and beige outdoors-man jacket was standing at the front door of the warehouse. He had on the standard yellow construction helmet and grubby, bright orange city-worker's vest. His clothes looked well kept and clean, but they were stained with the faint remains of dirt and soot that comes with years of work. The man's eyes were strained, and dark bags had begun to sag underneath his eyelids. He looked like he hadn't slept in days.

"Officer John Blake, sir." Blake said, extending his hand out. "You called for an unidentified body?"

The man didn't accept Blake's hand, he frowned as he looked Blake over, "You're awfully young for an Officer."

"New haircut," said Blake. There was some heat in his voice; he was tiring of hearing the same old thing.

The man eyed Blake for another minute before shrugging. He shook Blake's hand. His fingers felt cold and clammy. "Jason McFinn, Head of the Department" he said. "Found her about twenty minutes ago." Jason jerked his head toward the side of the warehouse, "This way."

Blake fell in line beside him as they made their way around the warehouse. He pointed to the parking lot. "Where's everyone?" Blake said, peering through the yellow-stained windows of the warehouse.

"Sent everyone home for the day," grunted Jason. "Didn't want them seeing this."

Blake arched an eyebrow, "You found her?"

"I did," Jason said quietly, watching Blake from the corner of his eyes. "I stay overnight on Fridays, oversee employee checks and everything. I went outside to lock up and..."he trailed off, his face turned a light shade of green.

Blake frowned, "Bad?"

Jason kept his gaze firmly ahead of him, "I'm not a man that's revolted easily, Officer Blake, as you can see," he waved a daft hand around the warehouse, "My line of work wouldn't suit the weak of stomach."

"But?" Blake said patiently.

Jason didn't answer, in fact he didn't speak again until they reached a chain link fence that led off to a maze of outdated engines and motors, all big and bulky, blocking off any line of sight. Jason removed a ring of keys from his pocket and turned to Blake. "It's bad in there, sir," he said hoarsely, "I wouldn't wish what happened to the poor girl on anyone."

Blake blinked a few times as he absorbed that, it had to be something seriously ugly to scare off a man whose made his career dealing with waste. Blake strained his neck to see out beyond the fence, the motors and engines were the size of his patrol car. A person could easily hide among all that machinery.

Blake motioned toward the machines. "These power the factory right?"

Jason nodded.

"Any cameras?" Blake said.

Jason shook his head, "We've never had a problem with criminals, there's nothing to steal. And most people can't stand being near this dump."

Blake scrunched his nose again, he'd figure he'd accustom to it, but the smell was still there, still revolting. Blake didn't have a weak stomach, but even he wouldn't care to hang around too long. "Ok then," Blake said, "Lead the way."

Jason fingered his key ring uneasily, "Are you sure, sir?"

Blake grimaced, "No, I'm not...but it's my job."

Jason seemed to accept that, he nodded in a way that said _if you must_, and opened the fence. Blake fell behind Jason as they made their way through the maze of engines and motors. After a few minutes of walking Blake shifted uncomfortably in his jacket; it was a very stuffy environment, steam and heat radiating off the steel, the smell of diesel fuel mixing horribly with waste and filth. Finally, Jason stopped cold and turned his head away from whatever was directly in front. "We're here, sir," he announced. Blake noticed that Jason's eyes were tightly shut.

Blake patted Jason's shoulder lightly, a gentle motion for Jason to move aside. Jason was all for it, he quickly sidestepped out of the way and Blake's eyes fell onto the scene in front of him.

Blake's partially eaten hamburger immediately came roaring up his esophagus.

Ms. Jane Doe was sprawled on the ground, her body, or rather, what was _left _of her body, could have been described as a women of slim build, shoulder-length icy blonde hair, and long legs and arms. That's where the assumptions stopped, because all Blake could see was red flesh scattered across bones, what looked like the remains of a pack of wolves' feast. Her entire torso was gone: breasts, heart, stomach, intestines, all gone and gouged by what looked like fangs or claws. What was left was oily red _tissue _that clung to her exposed rib-cage, the same color of butchered steaks that you can buy at a deli.

Blake didn't know why he couldn't look away, everything in his mind was screaming to turn around and run as far as possible until his legs or his heart gave out, but Blake stood rooted at the spot, his legs seemingly cut off from all connection to the rest of his body. His eyes gained a mind of their own and they continued their scan of Jane Doe, Blake's mind forced along for the ride. The skin and muscle of her legs, and thighs and arms didn't fare better than her torso, they were all similarly eviscerated, only sporadic pieces of flesh clung to scarlet-stained bones.

And then Blake's eyes gravitated up toward the feature he had been dreading feverishly. Her face.

She didn't have one.

It had been ripped away, as where her lips and nose; blood stained teeth and cartilage remained in their stead. Only her eyes remained intact, but they were torn and shredded, resembling a pulp of white and red shredded goo. Her mouth was wide open, and a nauseating quiver lurched in Blake's stomach...he hoped to God that she didn't die screaming, that she didn't die _awake_.

Before Blake could turn away, his eyes found her hair, it must have been gorgeous blonde once, radiating vibrantly under a warm sun, but now it was a mess of filth and blood, areas of her scalp had been completely chunked away. What remained of her hair was completely stained scarlet from a gaping hole at her left temple; it was cratered inward, as if something had furiously pounded its way into her skull. But where her brain should have been was nothing but empty, hollowed pallid bone, carved with vicious scratches and hacks.

Something had greedily clawed her brain out of her head.

Blake finally shut his eyes and turned away, his mind reeling in the aftershock images of what he had seen; torn and pulped flesh, ragged white bones...Blake shuddered: _something _had ripped its way into her and feasted on her flesh. Blake's leg gave way and he clutched at a pipeline from one of the engines, he slid down to the floor.

_Oh god, oh god, oh god..._

He didn't know how long he sat on the ground, but he remembered sliding his phone out of his pocket, muttering incoherently, and waiting for the cavalry to arrive. Before he knew it someone had put their arm under his and carefully lifted him up, a woman's voice was speaking calmly into his ear, and he made his way out of the jungle of machinery and yellow police tape, people were speaking furiously around him, camera shutters were shuffling loudly, lights were flashing, radios were hissing.

The sky had darkened considerably, and it was only noon.

"C'mon," the woman said softly, "You don't need to be here."

"I think she died screaming," Blake murmured quietly, "She died horribly."

"Then you'll get the son-of-a-bitch who did this," the woman said evenly. "I'll help."

That brought a smile to Blake's face. He turned to the woman, she was slightly shorter than him, which was impressive considering that Blake was a tad bit over six feet. . Her uniform differed drastically from Blake, he was in a nylon black officer's outfit, a thick windbreaker layered over, and she was dressed in a comfortable, black winter coat that fell down to her ankles, buttoned over a pair of black slacks and blazer.

She had the body and stature of an avid swimmer: straight back, slender and confident muscle. Lengthy, sandy blonde hair was pulled back behind her ears, falling comfortably onto her shoulder blades and lapping down to her upper back. Her skin was a healthy pale, not the clear pale achieved by makeup, but a light shade of pink and beige that flowed appealingly with her auburn eyes and faint bronze freckles. She was smiling, and for a moment Blake completely forgot about the eviscerated woman behind him.

"Blake? Earth to Blake?"

Blake blinked for a moment before shaking his head, "Oh, uh, sorry, Detective...lot on my mind."

"I can see that," the woman said calmly, she glanced back at to the area where Jane Doe lay, eaten, mangled. "That's not an easy thing to see. Listen, you look sick. Why don't you take off and head back—"

"As much as I want to, I can't," Blake said tiredly, "The guys will never let me live this down if they caught word of me leaving. Besides, it's barely noon and the heads at the Department will have my badge if they found out that I've skived off on my first week on patrol."

"You're not a detective or investigator, Blake," the woman said, "We'll take it from here."

"No, Detective, I want to—"

"Well I think that'll do it, _Officer_," the woman said loudly, "I'm going to need you to clear this crime scene."

Ten feet away, a pair of beat cops in uniform and plainclothes were beginning to eye Blake and the Detective, Blake caught their eyes and the cops smirked, shaking their heads and went back to their conversation.

"Any louder, _patrolmen_?" the Detective asked sweetly. "Or do I need to embarrass you in front of your friends."

Blake sighed and raised his hands in surrender, "I'll be at GCPD filing my report."

The Detective smiled contently, "Good. Have a nice day, officer. I'm sorry about your experience." She spun on her heel and made way over to the scene, where dozens of cops where lost amongst the maze of engines and machines. A giant band of police tape had been drawn all the way around the warehouse. Blake blinked, he stepped on something big if half the city's active cops were here at location.

"_And here I am," _Blake muttered a few minutes later as he walked back to the parking lot, "_walking away from what could be a major feather in my cap..._

Blake sighed as he opened his car door, his mind split between the unfairness and the grotesque crime scene he had all but stumbled on..._what on Earth had eaten that women?_

Blake's cell-phone rang. He took one look at the caller I.D. and rolled his eyes. Just for spite, he answered and hung up right away. He received a text message soon after, the color words: _whiny, fainting baby._

He snorted and waited for the inevitable, his phone rang again and he answered, "You've got to stop with the 'tough cop-chick' act."

A warm and amused woman's voice greeted him, "Who says it's an act?"

Blake grinned. "A real tough cop-chick wouldn't have given a damn about some rookie officer."

"Touche," the woman said, "But not every rookie cop is my boyfriend now are they?"

Blake choked for a second before passing it as a hacking cough.

The woman laughed, "Oh god, you are such a woman, John."

"I just never..." muttered Blake, rubbing the back of his neck uneasily. "I didn't think...I mean..."

Jane Doe's body flashed in Blake's eyes; her shredded eyes, caved in skull...

Blake shut his eyes tighter and rested his head on the recliner.

"I just have a lot on my mind," Blake said after a moment. "I haven't seen anything like this before."

"Not many have," the woman said quietly, "Don't let the other guys get to you, they might act like they're experienced, but no one has seen anything like this in a long time. The only ones at the scene are forensics."

"I know it's just...I mean, what would you have done in my situation?"Blake replied. "I mean damn, Lily...what the fuck happened to her?"

"That's _Detective Greene_ to you, buster," she answered, but there wasn't any heat in her voice. "I don't know, listen, what you found is making news..." Her voice suddenly quieted down to a little more than a whisper, "John, this is big. I don't think we've had anything like this since Harvey Dent's death. Every cop in the city is hearing word about this. There's even talk going around that the Commissioner himself is going to check-in."

Blake whistled. Commissioner Gordon was known all around as a war-hero in Gotham, but in all the years since Harvey Dent's death, he rarely came out of his office. Blake could only remember once when he saw the Commissioner, and that was in an old newspaper.

This was big, and he had been unceremoniously removed from the scene. Anger flared up in Blake, "Dammit, Lily. You know I have credibility issues with the Department. Why did you go ahead and publicly take me off something that could keep them off my ass?"

"_Detective Green_," Lily said, annoyed. "Don't be such a whiner, I gave you an excuse to leave so you could keep your breakfast inside your stomach. I just wanted to get the best guys on this as quick as possible. As soon as I heard that this was high-profile, I wanted my guys to do the forensics."

Blake's retort rolled off his tongue before he could check in with his brain. "You mean you wanted your guys to see if they can scrounge up anything on The Batman."

Silence on the line. Blake could all but hear Lily grinding her teeth on the other side. Great. Now he had done it. Him and his stupid mouth.

Blake rubbed his face with one tired hand and exhaled slowly.

"Listen, Lily, I'm sorr—"

Lily's voice came out in a deadly whisper, "...did you forget what that _monster _did to my family?"

Blake closed his eyes, "I remember."

"Then you might want to shut the fuck up the next time you want to butt into my business again."

Blake winced. The dial tone beeped. She had hung up.

Blake exhaled roughly and tossed his phone behind him where it joined the discarded hamburger. He leaned forward and rested his head on the cool leather of the steering wheel.

Today had started off so promising.

Just then, something began to thud against the hood of his car and windshield. It started slowly, and then quickly ascended to a furious pounding. Blake looked up with a strained, knowing smile on his face.

It was raining like hell outside.

Blake shook his head as he started up his car and drove away from the parking lot; away from Jane Doe, ripped and eaten to shreds; away from Lily Greene, who probably wouldn't speak to him for a few days; and away from the case that would have been a major coup for a green rookie.

Oh yeah, it never rains, but it pours.

* * *

_Drop me a review to let me know what you thought of that._  
_Next chapter features a wide range of characters: Diana, Emma, Alfred, and a new character! _  
_Thanks!_


	4. Three Servings

Alfred Pennyworth had walked into the bustling crowd of the Heathrow airport with great enthusiasm. He was on a trip that he had been looking forward to for many years and he arrived four hours early so that he could enjoy a relaxing steak dinner and maybe a good book. He waited patiently to receive his ticket while observing the sheer enormity of Heathrow's main terminal: a colossal rectangle structure made of pristine glass with smooth grey roofing that housed dozens of airplanes.

Three hours later, Alfred was still waiting in line, staring at this grey roofing with a somber frown. His stomach grumbled.

"Well," he muttered to himself, "Hamburger and fries it is."  
"Next in line, please," droned a voice.  
Alfred sighed. Words he had been longing to hear all morning.

He hauled his rolling luggage over to the far side of the airline booth. He closed in on a sandy-haired girl in her early twenties sitting behind a wafer-thin computer screen. She wore the standard blue skirt and blouse uniform, completed with a headset on her right ear. Before Alfred could even stop the wheels on his luggage she barked: "Ticket—ID—Destination!"

Alfred already had them in his hands. He handed them over to her and was a bit surprised she didn't yank them out of his hand.

"Alfred Pennyworth. Gotham," he said flawlessly.

The girl typed furiously on her keyboard, the monitor flashing various colors and light onto her pale face. Alfred waited patiently with his eyes closed and pondering what type of burger he would eat. The girl's patter on the keyboard stopped abruptly and she said, "I'm sorry, sir. Your flight is cancelled."

Alfred frowned, "Impossible," he said, "It's a private jet."

"And it was cancelled," she repeated, with the emotional interest of a robot.

"Can you check again?" Alfred said earnestly, "I just can't believe that—"

"You can purchase tickets at any of our Ticket Booths, Mr. Pennyworth." she said. "Would you like to purchase a ticket?"

She offered Alfred a practiced toothy smile.

Alfred sighed again and opened the breast pocket of his winter coat, "Very well, give me a moment to get out my—"

The girl's hand suddenly flew up to her headset. "Just a minute, sir!"

Alfred stood jadedly with his hands on his coat while he waited for the girl. The typing on the keyboard suddenly increased to a pounding and the girl's eyes widened tremendously, "Another private air jet, sir?" she said into the microphone.

Alfred's eyebrow rose significantly.

The girl's pattering stopped and a shiny, gray ticket slid out a small slit beside the keyboard. "We are very sorry about your situation, Mr. Pennyworth," she said, shamelessly showering him with her generic, toothy smile. "From all of us at Heathrow, please accept this one-way ticket to Gotham City— on a premium private jet." She held out the golden ticket to Alfred.

Alfred's eyebrows rose even higher. "I beg your pardon?"

The girl continued to hold out the ticket pleasantly, "This ticket is good for a one-way trip to Gotham City, on a premium private jet. First Class."

Alfred eyed the ticket warily, "Is this common occurrence? Whenever a cancellation takes place?"

"We at Heathrow are very sorry about your situation, Mr. Pennyworth," the girl said again, "from all of us; please accept this one-way ticket to Gotham City, on a premium private jet."

Alfred stared at her. She was a human tape-recorder.

"Well, thank you..." Alfred said, taking the ticket into his hands. Alfred turned the ticket over, he frowned. "Excuse me, miss, it doesn't state the departure."

"Whenever you choose to sir," the girl said automatically. "Just arrive at the gate and they'll take off as soon as possible."

Alfred turned the ticket over. "Really? " Alfred coughed politely. "Listen, I'm terribly sorry to be so crude, but there's no catch at all?"

The girl tilted her head, as if she had misunderstood him. "We are very sorry about your situation, Mr. Pennyworth. From all of us at—"

"Yes, thank-you very much," Alfred said hastily.;

"Thank you for choosing, Heathrow," the girl said, without a hint of annoyance or anger.

Alfred pocketed the ticket and his mind drifted over to a nice filet mignon and a bottle of sherry. Or maybe Merlot. He glanced back to the girl, "Excuse me, miss, can you point me toward your best restaurant? In particular one that serves fine steaks and wine."

She promptly handed him a small brochure, "That is our selection of restaurants in the Airport. Although might I add, sir; our private jets are fully suited for steaks and fine wine. They have a large selection that ranges from steamed lobster to grilled steaks and freshly prepared sushi. And there is an onboard winery for your pleasure," the girl smiled. "Everything completely free of charge, of course."

Alfred didn't even attempt to suppress the grin on his lips. "Well," he pocketed the brochure. "I suppose I have a flight to catch."

The girl nodded enthusiastically, "Thank you for choosing Heathrow."

Alfred set off toward his gate, a new spring in his step; courteous airport customer service was unheard of, after all. He bustled along the hordes and clumps of people, passing tourists in absurd clothing and foreigners babbling in exotic languages. He arrived shortly at the gate and handed the ticket to another young, blonde girl seated behind a desk, fitted in the same standard blue uniform. She even offered Alfred the same helpful smile.

"Thank you very much, sir," she said cheerily as she accepted the ticket. "Would you like to take-off now?"

"Yes, thank you my dear," Alfred said, his breath laboring slightly. He was after all approaching eighty and long walks didn't tend to agree with him anymore.

The girl happily stamped the ticket and handed it back toward him, "Enjoy your flight, Mr. Pennyworth. An associate will collect your things."

Alfred frowned. "Excuse me—?" but as soon as he finished his words another woman appeared beside him and lifted his luggage into a small cart. She quickly vanished behind a corner of grey tunnel that connected terminal to plane. Alfred followed dutifully.  
He reached the airplane's hatch and a man in black slacks and a white, long-sleeved shirt slipped out of an adjacent door and introduced himself as the pilot, _Captain Matthews._ His obsidian sunglasses shielded his eyes and a bright, white service cap fit snugly on a loose mane of graying hair. Alfred shook hands with the man and was led down the many cabins the jet had to offer: the first cabin was devoted solely to lush green poker and craps tables, managed by attractive, young female dealers stationed at every table. The second and third cabins were both elegant dining rooms, with shiny oak seats and small bars fitted neatly in the corners, the only exception being that the third cabin was broken into intimate, four-to-a-table dining islands and the third cabin housed a massive dinner table, suited for a larger party.

The fourth and final cabin doubled for a master bedroom: King-sized bed, velvet pillows, leather upholstery, sweeping stereo system, and an oak cabinet shining with all types of wines and liquors. Opposite of the bed a large flat screen was mounted perfectly between two rows of what could only be every entertainment system ever created by man. As a man who had enjoyed the comforts of a high-standard of living, Alfred was unquestionably a hard man to impress. But he was very impressed.

As soon as he sat himself into the nearest seat, a silver tray of drinks and ice slid up to his side along with another stewardess who could have modeled in any magazine she wished. She prepared him his drink of choice (an aged brandy in a snifter) and Alfred suffered through a well-rehearsed take-off routine courtesy of three stewardesses, each more attractive than the next, and buckled in. The take-off was the smoothest he had ever experienced—and Alfred considered himself a connoisseur of flight-travel. With London falling rapidly behind them, the smooth marbled surface of the ocean quickly surface and the times began to slip away. Soon Alfred's stomach rumbled in tune with the powerful hum of the engines—and no sooner than when he pushed a knob on his chair that three girls appeared, each holding a silver platter revealing roasted duck, boiled lobster, and a grilled filet-mignon. Alfred went with the steak.

* * *

"That was delicious," Alfred said a few hours later, passing along the empty tray that had contained his third serving of pie. "Compliments to your Chef, my dear."  
The stewardess smiled and refilled Alfred's drink (third glass) before striding to out of the cabin, leaving Alfred to turn back to the window of his seat. His small blue eyes began slipping focus as they fell under the tranquil spell of the ocean—aided dutifully by the healthy servings of brandy—and before long Alfred was helpless but to admire the ocean's surface glimmer playfully under the watchful sun, watching sleepily as the water became an endless canvas of sparkling diamonds and jewels. Alfred didn't have a complaint in the world at the moment, and it was during overseas business flights that Thomas Wayne, sitting across from Alfred, would often lament and curse Alfred's incessant window-viewing infatuation. Thomas would shake his head and attempt to egg Alfred into a much more enjoyable hobby: eyeing the pretty flight attendants.  
Bruce laughed the first time Alfred mentioned that story. It was one of Alfred's favorite memories to drift back to...

"You know, you would never catch your father doing that," Alfred said cheerily to the man sitting across from him.

Bruce Wayne tilted his head as he eyes gazed out the window, his eyes slightly furrowed from the sun's amber light falling on his face. "Doing what?" he asked idly. "Imitating a bum?"

Bruce was referring to his clothes. He was currently a stark contrast to Alfred and the Wayne Jet that they were aboard. Where Alfred was a common sight in a private jet, dressed in a comfortable and clean business suit—blazer, slacks and polished shoes—Bruce was dressed in the fashion of a post-apocalyptic survivor: ragged and faded, blue robes, flayed with mud and grime.

"You'd actually be surprised," Alfred said. "Years before your birth, your father was once involved with an organization akin to Doctors-without-borders. In those places there isn't much but grime and muck."

Bruce pursued his lips thoughtfully. "I didn't know that," he said calmly. "It fitted him, though. He always cared about those less fortunate."

"A characteristic, I believe, that he passed on to you, Master Wayne." Alfred said gently.

Bruce's eyes slid onto Alfred. "You called only called my father _Master_ Wayne," he said quietly. "What happened to Bruce?"

Alfred met Bruce's eyes evenly.  
"With respect, sir, you are the head of the Wayne family now," Alfred said. "I'll address you as such."

They stared at each other for a few seconds before Bruce scoffed softly and his eyes flickered back over to the widow. He exhaled through his nose gently. "You're right," he said moments later, his tone gentler.

Alfred was a gracious victor, and a gracious victor does gloat. He switched subjects.  
"Are you coming back to Gotham for long, sir?" he asked.

"As long as it takes," Bruce answered. "I'm going to show the city that it doesn't need to be afraid of the criminals and the corrupt."

Alfred frowned. A tall order.  
"How?" he asked, now genuinely curious.

Bruce ran a hand through his ragged and unkempt hair and shrugged. "I don't know. But I've been thinking about the man in Metropolis, the one that they've coined as _Superman,_" Bruce let out a long breath. "He might be the answer..."

"You'll pay him to fight for Gotham, sir?" Alfred asked dryly. "I don't believe he's the type of individual who is in it for the money."

"I'm not going pay him, Alfred." Bruce said wryly. "But I think what he _represents_ might be the final key to this puzzle. It's the same concept I learned out here."  
"I don't follow, sir," Alfred said. "Do you mean you'll try and absorb your own supernatural abilities?"

Bruce shook his head quietly and shifted in his seat, leaning forward toward Alfred and rubbing his hands together, pressing them to his lips. His eyes narrowed into a distant focus as he said, "I need to become something that isn't _human_," he said quietly. "Something that is terrifying and everlasting. Superman has shown the world that he isn't human, or at least that he has superhuman abilities...If I could just tap into that...become some sort of symbol..."

Bruce trailed off into his own thoughts. Alfred watched his charge patiently before saying, "What symbol, sir?"

Bruce grimaced and held out empty palms. He slid back into seat with a small sigh, his eyes settling out to the window. "I don't know."

"Yet," Alfred said calmly. "You are your father's son...You don't know _yet._"

Something glimmered in Bruce eyes and he nodded very slightly. Gratefully.

The two men enjoyed an unusually comfortable silence after that, both deep in their thoughts, faintly aware of the other. Suddenly, in the silence, Bruce's eyebrows furrowed. "What was it...about my father, earlier?"

"Hm?" Alfred said blankly. "Oh yes. Well. Back when we were much younger, your father would take me on a variety of business trips that would often require long flights across the Atlantic and Pacific. During those flights I would often stare out the window. Your father would insist that I join him in his routine of eyeing and seducing the pretty stewardess' serving the plane...of course it was folly, they probably never dreamed of turning down the _head _of the business they were...Master Wayne?"

A smile curled on Alfred's lips at the look on Bruce's face. "You're telling me," Bruce said slowly, shaking his head in disbelief. "That _my _father, _Doctor _Thomas Wayne...was a ladies' man?"

"Quite so, sir," Alfred laughed. "Before he met your mother, Thomas was quite the ladykiller. I remember when he came to England to visit me for the first time. All he talked about was the women and the bars and the feisty redhead he had just—"

"I think you made your point, Alfred," Bruce said uncomfortably. His eyes stared into the rug of the plane, "My father..." Bruce shook his head. "Who would have thought."

"Indeed," Alfred mused. "Saving lives by day, seducing woman by night."

Alfred then accepted two glasses of wine from a stewardess and turned to a game of chess with Bruce. The game lasted an unusually short thirty minutes; Alfred had won easily. Even more unusual as both men were master chess players. Bruce obviously had something on his mind, but of course, he blamed it on the wine and Alfred had the wisdom to accept that answer and to abstain from prying further.

Hours later, Alfred had gathered a pillow and reclined his seat back, closing in eyes in hopes that the combination of wine and food would drift him into sleep. But it was no use. The joy of seeing Bruce was too much, and despite the dread of dealing with whatever stubborn and hardhead plan that Bruce was concocting to save Gotham, Alfred grudging admitted to himself that a bubbling sense of excitement had appeared the minute he caught the determined glint of focus in Bruce's eyes. And then Alfred's ear prickled at the sound of whispering or murmuring. He lifted his head slightly off the pillow and he cracked an eye open. Bruce was staring out the window again.

"Saving lives by day...seducing by night," he was muttering to himself. "What if we reversed that...it would be simple...but perhaps there is some ingenuity in its simplicity...I never suspected father after all..."

Alfred smiled lazily and closed his eyes again, whatever Bruce was thinking it could wait until Bruce was ready.. Alfred settled into the chair and folded his arms into chest, his mind slipping away and the lethargic hum of sleep began fogging over him the second his head hit the cool surface of the pillow. Everything was perfect.

And then the airplane jumped as if it hit a pothole.

Alfred groaned. Damned turbulence.

He grudgingly cracked open his eyes and blinked as a beam of sun blared loyally into his retinas. He shambled up in his seat, his joints aching in protest—there was a time when Alfred would awake bright-eyed and bushy tailed from a nap, but that was when his hair was brown and his skin unwrinkled. He rubbed his stunned eyes for a minute until he figured they were readily adjusted and turned back outside the window. Where he expected the endless blue canvas of ocean his eyes instead feasted on the grey and charcoaled bedding of city streets and skyscraper towers. They were flying inland.

"Good lord, have we arrived?" Alfred mumbled blearily.

"'nuzzer twenty minutes," said a slightly accented voice.

Alfred turned to the voice; a beautiful, lightly tanned woman was standing patiently a few feet away. Her beauty had jolted Alfred's mind into categorizing her as another stewardess but that was before he caught sight of her attire: black slacks, white long-sleeved shirt, and a white service cap fitted loosely on the curls of her dark, chestnut hair. She was slightly taller than average and looked to be in her late twenties. Her head was tiled curiously and her brown, humid eyes gazed at Alfred from underneath her cap. She was smiling, not the artificial greeting of the booth ladies, but a genuine and warm gesture that spread pleasantly on her coy cheeks and exotic, sultry lips; striking a sensual confidence along a slightly narrowed chin. There was no denying she was beautiful, and there was no denying that she was a pilot; lettering stitched over her left breast read, _First Officer: Alexandria Mimieux._

"French?" Alfred asked pleasantly.

She nodded.  
_"Oui_," Alexandria said, "And you arhh—Breetesh_?"_

Very French, indeed.

Alfred nodded in return, "English, through and through," his eyes glanced again over her nametag. "Co-pilot?" "_Oui_," Alexandria said again. "And Meester Pennyworth, I jus' wanted to let you know about 'ze landing. We will arrive shortly and 'ze use of toiletries will soone become unavailable."  
_  
_"Not a problem, my dear," Alfred said. He shifted slightly in his seat. "And if I'm not being too forward, how did a woman like yourself come across piloting as a career?"

Alexandria's frowned slightly, "I am not quite sure what you mean, Meester Pennyworth."

Alfred lifted his hand over his heart, "You wound me, dear. I sound older than the time itself when I'm addressed as 'Mr. Pennyworth.' Call me Alfred, I feel _hip_, like my grandchildren."

That drew a small laugh from Alexandria and she bowed her head slightly. "_Alfred_," she said, smiling. "And if I am to comply with 'dis, 'zen 'et is only fair if you call me, _Alex_."  
"Certainly, _Alex,_" Alfred said warmly. After a moment, where his mouth seemed disconnected from his brain, he added. "I have a friend named _Emma_."

"Ah..." Alexandria said. "And iz she 'eenglish as well?"

A sudden thought came to him, echoing in the lingering thoughts of his mind, it was reminding him about something, something that he shouldn't do...but Alfred blinked and it vanished from his mind as easily as it appeared.

"American," Alfred answered smoothly, the words flowing effortlessly off his tongue. "But she has..." Alfred tiled his head as he considered the phrasing, "let's just say she has _exotic_ blood in her veins."

"European? Oriental?" Alexandria asked.

The answer wasn't quite so simple. Alfred chuckled and shook his head. "No, she's more...ah...well, her mother isn't exactly from anywhere near here...she's more of a...an islander," he said finally. And then a confused odd smile came on Alfred's face. "Actually...that is the very essence of what she is, now that I think of it."

Alexandria raised an eyebrow. "It certainly sounds _exotic_...how did you come across such an island?"

"I didn't," Alfred said. "She came to me—well, not really. " Alfred laughed. "It's a long story, but a man I considered a son..." Again, something distant in Alfred's mind bade him from saying...and it was gone.

Alfred shook his head, the brandy must be getting to him. English he may be, but three glasses of Brandy would dizzy any man.  
"Ah, where was I?" Alfred asked airily.  
"Your son," Alex answered gently.

"Ah, yes. They had a very rickety start. Both stubborn souls, I'll tell you that. But I suspect that's why he liked her, you know. She wasn't the type of woman to take _no_ for an answer—and my son wasn't the type to say _yes _to anybody," Alfred added, a fond smile on his face.

"I understand," Alexandria said, grinning. "My father iz ze epitome of stubbornness, and my mother would never accept anything less 'zen her own standards."

"Then you got a handle on his children as well," Alfred said. "They're twins. Boy and girl. Walking imitations of their parents..."  
Alfred's mind went back ten years, when William had walked into Wayne Manor dressed in suit, the spitting image of a ten year old Bruce Wayne.

Alexandria's gaze fell sober. She tilted her head. "You sound sad, _Alfred_."

Alfred let out a tired sigh, "Not sad, my dear Alex, not sad."

Alexandria made a small thoughtful sound and slid into a seat next to Alfred, "'Zen what?"she said, watching him quietly. "Regret?"

"Remorseful," he answered simply. Alfred rubbed his aged hands and sighed, "It's just..." Alfred heaved another sigh. "...he died before his time."

"The man you considered a son?"

"He _was _my son, for all it was worth." Alfred said bitterly. "Raised him myself. A good man." Alfred's eyes grew slightly hot and he gave a small laugh. "Forgive me," he said with a sad smile, rubbing his eyes tiredly. "I'm falling to pieces on a woman I've just met."

Alexandria put a hand on Alfred's shoulder, "There iz' nothing to forgive," she assured him gently. "Mourning our dead iz' not a weakness. Their memory gives us strength when we have none."

Alfred nodded soberly. "You're right, of course. He would reprimand me if he knew I was like this...it's just," Alfred's shoulders sagged. "Life isn't fair sometimes."

"No, it often isn't," Alexandria said softly. "But when life treats us unfairly, I find it iz soothing to speak about it."

"It is," Alfred said. He sipped the rest of his brandy and offered a smile to Alexandria. At this range he could see every detail of her face, she was of natural beauty, no sign of cosmetics or powders, maybe she was just genetically gif—

Something green flashed in her brown eyes. Alfred blinked.

Alexandria eyed him curiously. "Something wrong, Alfred?" she asked.

Alfred searched her eyes, but her eyes were an innocent brown. "Nothing my dear," he said after moment. He waved a hand and dismissed it. "An old man's mind playing tricks, that's all..."

A small tone _dinged _in the cabin.

"We ah landing," Alexandria announced immediately. She swiftly rose from the seat and gave a short courteous bow to Alfred. "It haz been a plezzure, Alfred," she said, "I hope you enjoyed your flight."

Alfred bowed his head. "I did my dear, thank you for your company. I hope one day our paths cross again."

Alexandria's eyes twinkled. "I am poseetive that zey will. Goodbye, Alfred." And she walked away toward the exit of the cabin and disappeared behind a curtain. A few minutes passed before the curtain rustled again and another stewardess appeared with an inferior, award winning smile on her face, instructing Alfred on his luggage and immigration.

Alfred turned back to the window, tiny smudges or specks began to appear on Alfred's mirror, pattering on the glass inaudibly. Rain.  
Alfred strained his neck and his eyes traveled upward toward the sky: Clouds. Dark and Stormy. His vision fell down to the city, where the familiar monorail built by the Waynes bustled dutifully in between the towers and monuments of Gotham City. He followed the monorail back to its main station, to the tall and black tower that all Gothamites knew as the unofficial center of the city. His search wasn't long, it was one of a kind, an obelisk that paneled its entire surface with obsidian black windows, towering above all other skyscrapers with a relaxed ease. Five silver letters served as the crown.

Overhead speakers blared to life and a voice said,  
"Now arriving in Gotham City."

They landed on the tarmac far smoother than Alfred had anticipated; the Captain and Alexandria must have been very well trained. His luggage was waiting for him at the exiting hatch of the plane, as where the pilot and Alexandria again. They greeted him warmly and offered departing grins as Alfred strode down another grey tunnel connecting plane to terminal. He entered the terminal and his eyes caught the raven hair, a hue of pitch-black so dark it could be blue, of two tall women sitting at the far end row of lobby chairs. They had their backs toward him, probably reading magazines or occupied with their cellulars. Alfred never understood the phenomena behind all the new gizmos, nobody had time for a good conversation with a cup of tea or coffee, only virtual chats and text messages. But Alfred assumed that's what his parents must have said when Rock and Roll, with its suggestive lyrics and dance moves, was first introduced. Alfred heaved a sigh. Those were good days.

He approached the two women, his eyes taking notice that they dressed identically: navy blue formfitting jeans and a slender, jet-black wool coat. From his approach he couldn't see their faces, but their different hairstyles were dead giveaways. The woman on the left had her hair in a short stylish bob that fell down to the smooth skin of her neck, while the other had her glossy locks falling down pleasantly either side of her face and onto her torso.

Alfred felt himself grinning and his heart beating excitedly, the last time he had seen either women was three years prior, at Emma and William's high-school graduation. Both of them received the highest marks, of course, with William himself the valedictorian.

Alfred stopped behind them, "Excuse me, misses," he announced into the air. "Can you help an old man find his way to Wayne Tower?"

The girl in the stylish bob immediately swiveled her neck and grinned mischievously up at him. "You're not that old, Grandpa." and she sprang up from her seat, pocketing the cell phone in her hands (Alfred snorted, he knew it) and promptly leaped over the row of chairs, descending at a much slower rate than gravity usually permitted.

"_Emma_," Diana groaned, pocketing her own cell phone and rising out of her chair. "We're in a public place."

Emma didn't roll her eyes, but she did come close. "Nobody noticed, Mom. And besides, I'm nowhere near as bad as Kara. Hiya, Alfred!" she added happily, all but cracking Alfred's ribs as she gripped him in a hug.

"I've missed you too, my dear," Alfred said as he gently kissed her forehead. He hardly needed to bend his neck. Emma was nearly as tall as he was, and Alfred stood at a towering six-foot-three.

It was Diana's turn to roll her eyes, "As I've said time and time before, as much as I love Kara as my own flesh and blood, she isn't my daughter, and therefore, not my responsibility. Hello, Alfred." She added toward him, her voice much more pleasant.

"Diana," Alfred greeted warmly. He drank in the sight of the Amazonian Princess before him. "You look as beautiful and youthful as the day I met you. You must lend me the name of your moisturizer."

It wasn't flattery. Diana's stunning features had remained virtually unchanged since she first arrived in Wayne Manor, twenty years ago. Her soft, porcelain skin ran smoothly, unblemished and healthy, and her raven hair shimmered lustrous and vibrant. But there was something different that Alfred sensed, something in the way she carried herself. Years ago, Diana was the epitome of a warrior princess: graceful and Hellenic, yet stern and fierce when necessary.

Now, Diana shoulders were far too relaxed to be acknowledged as upright and graceful. She seemed, for lack of a better word, calm. Relaxed.

Motherly.

Alfred found himself laughing.

Emma lifted her head from his chest and eyed him warily, "What are you laughing about?"

"You have no idea how much you are like your mother," Alfred answered. "You roll your eyes the same way."

When Emma and Will were much younger, it was easy to spot either Diana or Bruce in the twin's features. Alfred read somewhere that this was because children's faces are very similar, and boys and girls would often be mistaken for their gender. But now, fully grown, there was no question who Emma took after. Tall and blessed with curves, a sharp nose and cheeks, ruby lips and radiant black hair, Emma could have been Diana's younger sister. The only difference was the eyes. Diana had arctic blue eyes. Emma's were a warm hazel.

Emma withdrew from Alfred and shrugged. "I know," she said sheepishly. She aimed to come off as annoyed by the constant comparison, but there was always a small pride that flashed across her face that went unnoticed by everyone except Alfred. It was the same pride that flashed across Bruce's features whenever they compared him to Thomas.

Emma's lips curled and her eyes went distant in reflection. "Uncle Clark says it the most, you know. Every time I see him," she deepened her voice to Clark's tone. "'You look so much like your mother, Emma, your hair, cheeks and your nose. Everything except for the—'"

"—Eyes," Alfred finished proudly, "Well, you do have your father's eyes. Hazel has run in the Wayne family for centuries. "

Emma offered a smile, but it came off as sort of half-cheerful grimace. "I guess so..."

A ringing silence filtered in. Emma shifted uncomfortably and her eyes fell to the floor.  
Diana coughed and quickly stepped beside Alfred, "Let me take that for you, Alfred," she said as her fingers firmly clasped around the handle of his luggage. Alfred began to protest but Diana arched an eyebrow, letting him know that she would not be discouraged. An amused smile slid onto his face and he held his hands up in surrender.

"I see that your youthful face isn't the only thing that has remained unchanged, Diana," Alfred said. "You remain as stubborn as ever. I fear for those Wayne Enterprises Executives."

Diana laughed as she slid the luggage to her side. "It's Lucius they fear, not me. Besides," she nodded slyly to Emma, "I think they're going afraid of somebody else."

Alfred raised a brown and turned to Emma, "Is that so? Are we turning into a cutthroat, formidable businesswoman?"

Emma's hair hung over her face as her gaze crept up from the airport's floor. Her eyes danced gleefully up at Alfred. A devilish grin buried beneath her hair.  
"You should have seen me today, I almost had Daggett's secretary in tears," said Emma, "Lucius says he's proud of me."

Lucius Fox, Vice-President of Wayne Enterprises as well as armorer to Bruce during his nightly excursions. He was one of the few people Alfred trusted. A good man.

"Lucius," said Alfred with a breath of remembrance. "I shall have to pay him a visit as well, few things I need to speak to him about. Will he be attending the twin's party?" he asked of Diana.

Diana shook her head. "I don't believe so. He wishes he could but he sends his best. Sorry, Emma."

Emma nodded patiently. "I know how busy he is, don't worry Mom. Will and I won't mind."

William Wayne, Emma's twin brother. Alfred had been wondering.  
"Is William here as well?" Alfred asked mildly. He then glanced around. "I'd like to see if the pictures actually do him justice, I swear he looks exactly like..."Alfred trailed off at the somber faces of Diana and Emma.  
"He _is _alright...isn't he?" Alfred asked uncertainly.

Emma cast an underhand glance toward her mother. "Will is fine," she said after a moment's silence. "I just don't see him much anymore. He's always gone for big chunks of the day. And he won't tell me what he's up to." Emma eyed Diana hesitantly, "A—And Mom has tried to get it out of him," she said slowly. "But he won't budge...Dad has tried as well."

"Ah..." Alfred said. He had no clue what to say.

Diana sighed tiredly, appearing more aged than her slender frame and youthful face should have allowed. "He's just in the middle of a problem. You know how he is, Alfred, he's too smart for his own good, always finding problems and spending entire afternoons working them out. We just need to give him time. Maybe you can talk to him tonight at the party."

This brought Alfred back to the reason he was in town. "Ah yes," Alfred said, turning to the inside of his breast pocket. "Today is twenty years...my god has it been that long." He withdrew a large parcel wrapped in brown paper. "I was going to wait until the party, but you'd be pressed to open it in front of a large crowd, and I'd rather give you the option to open this whenever you feel ready to do so."

Alfred held it out to Emma.

She eyed the package warily. "What's so unusual about this?" she said as she accepted the package.

"It's something that I meant to give to your father many years ago, before he...well..."Alfred's beady blue eyes failed to meet Emma's, there was a little orphaned boy in that pool of hazel. Alfred cleared his throat, "Happy Birthday, Emma," he said hoarsely.

Alfred felt Diana press a gentle hand to his back. "C'mon, I want to arrive at the hall a few hours before my mother arrives. She hates the travel here, but she likes you. I think it would do everyone well if you defuse her while she's wound up."

Alfred winced. The last thing he needed was a verbal hammering delivered by the Queen of the Amazonian Islands. "Ah...perhaps that isn't the best of ideas. You see, I'm not feeling terribly well at the moment and—"

Emma leered at him, "What's a matter, Gramps? Scared of an in-law?"

Sometimes, Alfred suspected Emma inherited the dry-humor gene that eluded Bruce.

"In-laws, by themselves, are worthy of a few rings in hell, my dear," Alfred said, a tight painful smile on his face. "And when you add god-like powers and a strong pride into the mix...you get your grandmother."

"She isn't that bad you know," Emma said cheerily. "She's nice when she wants to be. I think she likes me."  
"Of course she likes _you_," Diana said, with a small laugh. "You're a woman. She's biased."

"She likes Alfred as well," Emma countered. "And I'm sure that Alfred doesn't have a pair of breasts. But if you do," she added to Alfred, "you're hiding them quite well."

Alfred and Emma's laugh withered into somber chuckles as they took notice of Diana's face. For a moment, Alfred could see Diana's mother, Hippolyta, glaring at him.  
"Shall we have a nice lunch?" he offered as a thought of a one-on-one conversation with the Queen became a closer reality. "I'm terribly hungry and I wish that we could stop for a meal. If you're too busy you can simply drop me off here and I'll eat dinner myself. I wouldn't want to keep you from your mother, Diana. I could call for a cab. It would be no problem."

Diana eyed him very skeptically and before she could a reply, a thick accented voice wafted over to their ears, "Ahhh, but Alfred, you had enjoyed a steak dinner on 'ze flight over here."

Diana and Emma both glanced to the voice behind him. They turned to Alfred, mirrored eyebrows arched at him.  
"Foiled again," Alfred muttered wryly. He turned to Alexandria.

She was standing a few feet away with the Captain and the stewardess' beside her. They all hoisted sports bags over one shoulder and dragged wheeled luggage behind them. Alexandria shrugged one shoulder with a touch of playful cheekiness at the reaction on Alfred's face. "I said ve would meet again," she reminded him.

"I had expected more distance in between," Alfred said, amused. "Diana and Emma, meet the crew of my flight. Captain Matthews, First Officer _Alexandria_, and the charming stewardesses_._"

At Alfred's introduction Captain Matthews gallantly tipped his hat and the stewardesses collectively offered a small curtsy bow. Alexandria did none of these things.  
She strode forward in a trance-like state, eyes never leaving Diana's. She extended her hand, somehow managing to look Diana evenly in the eye despite coming up short to Diana's chin.  
"_Plezzure,"_ she said throatily.

Diana eyed Alexandria and her hand uncertainly. She caught Alfred's eye and immediately her uncertainty blossomed into a warm smile.  
"Charmed," Diana said, taking Alexandria's hand politely. She nodded curtly to her side, "This is my daughter, Emma."

Alexandria withdrew her hand and her gazed shifted slowly to Emma, "Ah, _Emma_...you look very much like your mother."

She offered Emma her hand. Emma took it, only after hesitating for half a second.

"I know," Emma answered coolly, staring evenly into Alexandria's eyes.

Alexandria sultry lips broke into a wicked grin. "Except for the eyes..." she said softly, almost relishing in the words. Emma made to withdraw her hand but Alexandria retained her grip. Emma's jaw clenched.

Alfred coughed loudly before things could get out of hand. "I think we're running late," he said quickly. He sensed danger from the narrow of Emma's eyes. "Shame we couldn't chat longer."

For a moment he believed Alexandria would ignore his words, as her eyes lingered curiously on Emma. But before the tension snapped Alexandria released Emma's hand. "Of course," she said, turning back to Alfred with an apologizing grin. "You must have pressing business with Wayne Enterprizees."

Diana immediately stiffened. This time Alfred was dead certain something emerald glimmered in Alexandria's brown eyes.

"_Au revoir,"_ Alexandria said, her eyes gliding over Emma and Diana before spinning on her heel and returning to the crew. Within ten feet of reaching her party the stewardesses collectively grabbed their belongings and fell dutifully behind the two pilots as they made way to another gate and vanished out of sight. Diana and Emma had watched them leave without a sound.

Alfred shifted nervously, "Well, that was interesting..." he said to the two glaring women. "I've been cursed with British charm, I suppose..."but the laughter died as soon as it contacted with the somber atmosphere surrounding the two Amazonian women. He might as well have tried goading a brick wall into conversation, for all the good it would do. Alfred shook his head and settled down on a lounging chair as a yawn escaped him, a small wave of fatigue that his aging bones saw fit to express. He waited patiently in the chair for a minute before Emma exhaled loudly through her nose and said, "Can you believe how she walked away?"

Diana made a sound in agreement.

"_You look like your mother_," Emma muttered. "What an idiot."

"Language," Diana said, but there was hardly any firmness in her voice.

Alfred rubbed his eyes. Women prided themselves on the extraterrestrial skill to completely analyze and discern the character of another woman with nothing more than a few exchanged syllables. Emma and Diana's reasoning would forever remain unknown to him. It was strange. He liked Alexandria. She was beautiful and extremely kind. He was certain that she would have taken to Emma and Diana like bread and butter.

"She was eavesdropping on us," Diana said quietly. She was still watching the gate with narrowed eyes.

Alfred heaved a sigh, "She was not. She was very helpful to me during the flight. She merely meant to say a farewell."

"She knows about Wayne Enterprises," Diana said, even quieter. "She might know about her father."  
A sudden pang of dread dropped in Alfred's stomach. He now had a good idea what his mind was so insistent on reminding him about during the flight. He raised his head and stared at Diana, horrified. "You don't really think that..." he began.

She shook her head resignedly. "No," she admitted. "Everyone knows I run W.E., but still..." she lowered her gaze from the gate. "We can't be so blatant about it, wouldn't do any good..."

She was speaking about the twins. Diana had never revealed the truth about the twin's parents, she thought (and Alfred agreed) that it would be better if the world never knew about Bruce Wayne and Princess Diana. It would be too dangerous. Somebody would no doubt find it highly unlikely that the intelligent and honorable Amazon warrior would fall for the sleazy Prince of Gotham City. And that somebody just might contemplate whether there was more to Bruce Wayne than meets the eye. Gods knew Alfred needed someone poking around the Wayne Family's history.

And Alfred let that precious information slip, in a public airport, of all places.

He closed his eyes hard and he struggled to recall the conversation he had with Alexandria on the plane, he was quite chatty, but he had said nothing that would compromise the twins...but still, Diana was right, he was entirely too familiar. He shook his head. "If you only knew my embarrassment..."

"It's not your fault, Alfred," said Emma. He looked up, Emma's lips were bent in a somber grin. "I know how much he meant to you..." Her grimace curdled slightly and her eyes fell to the floor as she rocked timidly on her heels. "And I don't know what I'd do if I lost any of you...so...you know...don't worry," she finished awkwardly.

Alfred loved Emma will all his heart for that. She must have known too because her cheeks went pink and she drew a set of keys from her pocket. "Uh...I'm going to go to the car," she said quickly. And she was off, walking briskly toward the throng of luggage and people.

Diana took the seat next to him, the quiet anger she flashed at Alexandria was absent from her eyes. A long, weary breath escaped her, as if she was bearing a heavy weight on her neck. She rested her head on his shoulder and her long raven locks fell onto Alfred's torso. Diana moved forward and the soft smooth skin of her palm found his aged and calloused fingers. She interlocked them tightly. "You're their grandfather," she told him gently, squeezing his palm reassuringly. "I would have thought less of you if you hadn't exploded with memories of him the second you laid eyes on her..." She snuggled her thoughtfully on his shoulder. Alfred stayed quiet.

"Sometimes I do too, when we're at home and at work," she said quietly, a tranquil sadness rippling in her voice. "Sometimes she'll anger and her eyes will blaze with the same anger that he had." Diana lifted her head and turned to the fading image of her daughter's silhouette. "After all," she murmured wistfully, "she does have his eyes. His heart, too."

Alfred squeezed Diana's palm. "His heart, too."  
Diana turned to him, and nudged his shoulder. "C'mon," she said to him, "we don't want to be late."

Alfred nodded. "Let's not keep your mother waiting."

Diana smiled and she squeezed Alfred's palm again. "Thank you."  
Alfred thought of Emma and her brother, the last of the Wayne Family: the family that had taken Alfred in and raised him as a son. Emma and William were all he had left of Bruce and Thomas and William Wayne, they were the last of the hazel eyes that followed him into his dreams.  
He softly clasped Diana's right hand with both of his palms, and he kissed her cheek. "No, my dear," he said quietly. "It is I who should be thanking you...for them."

Diana watched him for a moment. A smile touched her face. "Welcome home, Alfred."

They left the airport together.

* * *

**Sorry I've been M.I.A. for so long, but I had to make sure I wrote far enough so that the story wouldn't have any plot holes and that it would make sense. Next chapter we'll be seeing Emma's brother, William, and that will be a great deal of fun! Thanks for reading!**

_P.S. If you haven't checked out my good friend "theamerican91" you should definitely drop to his page after this, he is working on this story called Stains of Time (like you haven't heard of it; it's the longest story on JLA FF) and I think my readers would really enjoy his work! I've beta'd for him and it looks like his story is coming out to be pretty epic._

**Thanks again!**


End file.
